The Dead of Night [Wattys2014]

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

My HEAD IS SPINNING OUT OF CONTROL if this keeps up it'll probably come off! My eyes are crusted with days of sleep and every muscle in my body is numb. I couldn’t remember anything at first, but then, as if on purpose, I’m dragged back to last nights—wait, was that all a dream? A worthless, stupid Nightmare? — I sure as hell hope so.

I remember seeing red, lots of it. Too much as a-matter-of-fact for normal.

Was that normal?

Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I regain focus— a little too much focus— I can hear buzz of traffic, and the smell of coffee in my nostrils. I’m in a room, with one door, and small rectangular window touching the ceiling. There’s a table, fridge, circle rug, and at TV? Is this stuff all mine? Do I live in a basement? At first I thought I was on a bed, —well sought of— it looked like a bed, I guess it smelled like a bed, and is sure as hell felt like a bed. But it was a couch! Wow I must know how to get good furniture. I tried to sit up, it partially worked, now I’m leaning on my wobbly elbows, and trust me this may sound easy, but I’m really struggling. I push harder on my elbows, thank the Heavens that they didn’t collapse.

My body feels like shit, and my dress is torn at the rim, all the way around, 360-degree rips, and the fact that I’m coated in dirt. Now that I’ve evolved from leaning it’s time to sit. And I do so, with flying colors.

Next step—and probably the most important, walking. I’m barefoot which makes standing that much more easy. The stone floor is biting into my skin, small daggers of ice retreat to my bones, spreading throughout my body.

I manage to take a step —a lot of wobbling and shaking too— I then take another, then another, then a few more. I’m in the rhythm now, left-foot, right-foot, then repeat.

In a quick motion of steps I’m facing a stonewall; actually it’s the one with the small window.

There’s light dazzling through the pane, dancing through, onto my outstretched hand, it burns slightly. It’s buzzing like a heart would to run, or a mouth to coffee. The small machine ticking inside of me is grumbling, grumbling, grumbling. It’s source of power gone.

 “Finally you’re awake!” I leaped further into the cold atmosphere, letting out a coarse scream.

His deeply tanned face was staring me down. To some extent he looked Spanish. With his deeply tanned shoulders coming out of his shirt, the way the tresses on his mop of hair sit, waiting for a hand to come through. Eyes the colours of browns and greens pierce into me. I believe the people call the color Hazel. Red are his lips witch turn upward. His own feet move in the rhythm, left-foot, right-foot, then repeat.

“Here drink this, you’ll need it” A blue-tubed packet of red came from his warm-looking muscular hand. My own hands were somewhat dainty, gracefully snatched the prey from his offering. Ripping off the capsule in which it was stored. The contents spilled down my throat, sending delicious pleasures into the veins, whose job is to help the beating heart. The faint ba bump, ba bump, ba bump ringing into the rib cage inside of me. Drained was the content now, empty but still blue, like that strange innocent’s veins. Spanish innocent was staring at my form, hungry for blood.

Nose’s can smell things; mine can smell the strange but alluring aftershave. “My name is Royce, Royce Choiseul” His limbs attached to his shoulders leapt up, holding themselves out as he inspected me, head to toe. Up and Down.